Interludes
by Candy Apple Heart Attack
Summary: They have secrets; interludes in the darkness. When they're apart, boundaries become blurred. Sometimes, they're apologetic; others, they are without remorse. Aido x Yuuki. Kaname x Zero.
1. Apologetic

**Chip:** Aha, so this here is the product of my wild imagination. You see, in my drabbles over yonder (entitled: "Drabbles By Moonlight"), I'm trying to keep 'em short (drabble-like) and well-balanced, as far as the character appearances go. Unfortunately, I see to me collected (or obssessing) over Aido x Yuuki recently. That's how this happened. "Apologetic" and its soon-to-be-posted-here twin "Unremorseful" were meant to be parts of the drabble series, but they're just too damned long and tend to screw with the whole sense of carefree, un-relatedness of the other drabbles. So, I didn't to post them as a separate story.

I hope you enjoy "Interludes". This is only Part One. Part Two will be up, eventually, some time soon.

Recommended Listening: "My Medea" by: Vienna Teng; "Come On Closer" by: Jem; "Last Song" by: Gackt; "Hoshi no Suna" (the Piano Version) by: Gackt.

* * *

[Apologetic]

It always happens when Kaname is away--_only_ when he's away. There is no other opportunity, otherwise, for Kaname's eye is ever watchful and his possession of his mate unsurpassed by his attention to any other matter.

But when he _is_ away, that's when it happens.

* * *

She's in the library, reading, when she feels the presence behind her. She doesn't turn her head, because she knows there can only be one person in this estate with her--only one, who would approach her without fear.

The hands descend from behind her, coming down over the back of her chair to land gently on her shoulders, bare except for the silken straps of her dress. Cool fingers brush the straps away so that they lay over her arms like pale, crooked rainbows; nails dig ever so lightly into her skin, marking her with tiny half-moons.

It is the only mark Hanabusa can ever leave on her skin.

She cocks her head to the side, the action providing him with a clearer view of her slender, pale throat and there, the network of bluish veins visible only to a vampire in hunger. His breath hitches and she keeps back a smile, though the smallest breath of amusement slips between her lips.

He abandons his attentions to her shoulders and moves around the chair. Her feet are bare and tucked into the seat, crossed at her side. The flimsy, silken material of her informal dress lays pooled in her lap, sliding clear of her thighs and the curve of her knees. Her legs are a temptation--a trail to follow upward, to more.

He _cannot_ give in.

But in a way, he is doing just that. She closes her old, worn novel over one finger and tucks it down gently into the seat; her attention is for him, now. He sinks immediately to one knee before her, his arm crossed over his chest and his head bowed in the deepest respect. She is a woman; a beautiful, ravishing, kind woman with no equal in his eyes--but also his Queen and the distinction is never to be forgotten.

Her hand comes down on his head, gentle; her fingers play through his hair for a moment, twisting his half-curls around and around. She is always so fascinated with his hair and the way it seems to capture the Sun in every strand.

He's shaking, just the slightest, with exertion. He came seeking a respite from the burn, the ache--but he's ever the gentlemen with her. He is never rough and he never rushes her; he basks in the sweet, torturous delight of her favor.

Though it may one day destroy him.

Her hand moves lower, to cup his cheek; she lifts gently with her fingers, inviting him to raise his head. He does so, only because he cannot help himself. Her eyes are honey and amber; blood and liquid garnet. It's a color he has never been able to name, though he likes to think of it as simply _hers_.

Her hair is falling down around her shoulders and lower; the front of dress she wears is useless, the material so soft, it slides against the smooth skin without catching. Her breasts are not large, but they are perfect in their size and not at all left to the imagination. She has never been fond of underclothing; the small, rounded peaks in the material remind him of it.

He wonders, absently, if it is the temperature of the room or his presence which causes her body to react. From the corner of his eye, the flames of the fireplace dance idly.

Her palm is still pressed to his cheek, the warmth of her fingers curved around it to slip into his hair, around his ear. It's a very intimate touch.

Were Kaname to see it one day, he had no doubts that he would find himself very quickly disposed of.

But it would be a death worth dying, he supposes.

For the pleasure of her touch, he'd die a thousand times over.

And she knows it as well.

The desire is worsening; the craving called out for her. He shakes a little harder with it, his eyes fluttering shut to hide the half-pain from her.

But she sees it, as she always does.

She pulls her hand away from his cheek, turning it so that he might see the tracing of veins in her wrist and the fluttering, butterfly wings of her heartbeat, pulsing.

He exhales from between clenched teeth, the desire swelling up sharply inside of him. His fangs press down into his bottom lip, making indents there when he wanted nothing more than to bury them down inside _her_.

She watches him calmly, sees how his eyes turn from cool ice to the bright, flaring red--nature's warning color. It said 'danger', 'stay away'.

She beckoned him forward with a slight crooking of her fingers.

He comes with hunger, his hands rising to trap hers. Her wraps long, cool fingers around her forearm, to hold it down at an angle; the fingers of his other hand capture hers, bending them back and away, gently, to give him better access to the pale expanse of her wrist.

Everything about this is both gentle and ravenous. She gives and he takes, because he cannot help himself.

He hisses out another breath, his lips parting. His mind is everywhere and nowhere at all, focusing on her and then slipping away to hunger. He whispers her name, reverently--a word of thanks, of apology, of pleading.

The only warning he can give her.

His bite is deep, his fangs piercing sharply. He groans as her blood--rich, powerful, sweet--floods over his tongue and he swallows, taking her into him in the most primal of ways. His body rages--with heat--and he aches to have more of her. He wants to bury his fingers in her hair and pull back, to have his fill from the one fount that is forever forbidden to him.

It is in these moments, with her blood in his mouth and his body crying out for hers, that Hanabusa allows himself to think--to dream--that she is meant to be _his_. Not Kaname's; not Kiryuu's.

_His._

_His _soulmate, stolen by chance.

Everything inside him knows that she is his, in the basest way. He may not share her bed, or her throne--but he is at her side, always, loyal. To the King, he gives his sword.

To the Queen, his life.

And his heart.

And she knows it--she knows it, truly. It's in the way she watches him from the corner of her eye, always anxious to have him near. It's in the way her hands tightened in her lap at the mention of his name--and the way her she lowered her eyes, to veil her excitement.

It was in her smiles.

Maybe, it might seem over-reaching; no one else could see as he did, because no other had hidden in the same way they did.

It's in the way he inclines his head, in acknowledgement of her glance. It's in the way he makes sure to rise early to be at her side, though he relishes sleeping in. It's in the way he is quick to defend her honor and slow to retire from her presence--and in the way his gaze trails after her each evening, when she goes to be with her King.

It was in his smiles, as well, though much more carefully tucked away.

He takes her blood, in this way, in the manner of a servant. He aches for more, but cannot force her to allow him. It's not his way.

Her head is thrown back against her chair, her hair spilling around her. Her chests rises and falls in deep, quaking breaths; her cheeks are flushed and her lips parted. She watches him through half-lidded eyes and he catches sight of her state when he glances up to meet her gaze.

There is an understanding between them, in the space left unfilled by words or protocol. His desire, her want--their mutual, burning infatuation and the sense that there could be more, if they reached further...

An understanding that...it could not be.

Not in that way. Not beyond _this._

She regrets causing him pain--hates that it is her blood and her form which so tempts him to do things which might one day get him killed.

He repents his involvement, the turmoil it causes within her; he despises that he has stoked the fires of her passion to this point, where she feels she must conflict herself between her vows and her heart.

They are sorry for what the effects of what they do--but never sorry for the thing itself.

So when they part, at the end of the evening, it is with his head bowed and her body swaying with exhaustion. He walks her to her chamber door and escorts her inside, but never does he stay and she cannot invite him to do so.

* * *

They say love is a bridge from one heart to another; from one soul, a link, to its match.

They cannot go fully across that bridge, nor can they turn their backs and let it fall into decay.

Instead, they stand in the middle and stare endlessly toward the other side.

Apologetic, but unremorseful.


	2. Unremorseful

**Chip:** Alright guys, thanks for the patience. Here is the promised second part of this piece and with it, the conclusion. As I said, these were just a pair of spin-off writes from my "Drabbles By Moonlight" set that got wildly out of control. They were just too long and I couldn't condone letting them sit on my hard-drive unexposed. So here they are. Aha, I'm actually very amused because this second part, entitled "Unremorseful" (which I'm well-aware isn't a real word) is well-over twice as long as it's twin, "Apologetic". Ah, well. I hope you enjoy.

Ah, right, fair warning. There's slash here, in case you some how missed the first warning in the summary. Kaname x Zero, though nothing overly graphic. I don't do lemons too often, so fear not.

Recommended Listening: "Lover I Don't Have To Love" by: Bright Eyes; "The Servant" by: Cells; "Black Black Heart" (Slow Version) by: David Usher; "Adrenaline" by: Gavin Rossdale

* * *

[Unremorseful]

It always happens when Kaname is away--_only_ when he's away. There is no other opportunity, otherwise, for Kaname is ever by Yuuki's side and some distractions are best left for _outside _the home. He would never trouble Yuuki's mind with such things.

But when he _is_ away, that's when it happens.

* * *

A meeting with the new head of the Hunter's Society--that is what draws Kaname from his home this time. He travels across the country for two nights to attend a three-day long summit meeting.

He is not pleased by the triviality of the matter, but concedes that as King, it is his responsibility to attend.

When he arrives at the grand villa the society has allotted to him for his stay, he enters alone, with one bag in his hand. His driver is a rental--a Hunter, as per regulations--and disappears as soon as Kaname exits the vehicle. Dispassionately, he watches from the doorway as the smoke of the exhaust catches in the winter wind and drifts away. Then, the car is gone over the edge of the furthest hill and he turns on his heel to enter the foyer of this dwelling.

The door swings shut behind him--a task accomplished with a lone thought--and he strides slowly into the very center of the large welcoming hall. The marble under his feet is mixed-grey--probably Italian--and catches the light of the multi-tiered chandelier dangling precariously high above his head from the cathedral ceiling. There are no other lights on, but the reflected glow casts the room in the dimmest-touch of gold, illuminating a dual-leading grand-staircase and marble column work.

He arches a single eyebrow.

"My thoughts, exactly."

The voice comes out of the semi-darkness, from behind him. Near the doorway. It's smooth, self-confident and not-entirely lacking hostility.

Kaname doesn't turn to address the speaker, though a small, imperceptibly crooking of his lips might have been construed as a smile--or something crueler.

He sets his bag down on the floor by his feet and lifts his chin to inspect the ceiling, enhanced eyesight seeing the minute, spider-webbing cracks in the plaster that indicated the buildings weaker supports.

He would need to be careful, then, not to bring the house down over their heads.

The marble, though--it was sturdy enough. So long as he was not overly rough with it, it shouldn't crack...or shatter. He was almost sure that the columns were hollow, however--that would have to be taken into account.

"How are the bedrooms?" He asked.

"Huge. Velvet, silk, glass and marble for the King of a murderous, monstrous horde--only the very best for you, _of course_." The disrespect that laced every syllable of that voice was expected--familiar. Kaname would accept such irreverence from only one person. _This _person.

"It doesn't matter anyway," said the voice, "It's not like you actually deign to sleep most of the time."

Kaname's lips _did_ slip into a smirk, "I've never heard any complaints from you."

"Only because it does no good to argue with a pureblood--got a fucking God-complex."

"Then perhaps," Kaname returned, "You should stop requesting the guardian assignment when I visit, Kiryuu."

"Fuck you, Kuran."

Kaname turned now, to face his watch-dog. His gaze took in the casual posture the hunter took against the wall near the door, one leg straight and the other bent at the knee so that he might recline; his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze focused directly on Kaname.

His hair was longer than the last time they'd met, the silver strands loose and brushing at his shoulders. His clothes were black-on-black, a collared button-down tucked into straight, black-jeans, the silver of his simple belt buckle breaking the monotony and drawing Kaname's gaze to the slim angle of his hips and the way the jeans rode low, there. Hanging off both shoulders to swirl around his calves was a black duster, the edges marked with the symbol of his long-dead clan.

The overall impression was of a hunter, comfortable in his own power.

Kaname took every opportunity to remind him that it was power _he_ gave him. It never failed to get an appropriate reaction from his pet hunter.

They stared each other down, taking one another in. Zero's gaze flickered from Kaname's loose, wind-blown hair to the exposed jugular and chest where the pureblood's shirt was parted, unbuttoned. Then lower, to the belt that encircled his waist and the smooth, custom-tailored fit of his slacks. The strength of his legs, the grace of his arms, flowing from his shoulders--hidden, of course, by a long over-coat. All of it was deceptively elegant looking.

All of it stirred up that same, blood-lusting attraction.

A deadly, fatal attraction.

For _both _of them.

Finally, it is Kaname who breaks the impasse, turning away. Grabbing his bag, he heads at casual pace toward the grand stair. In a moment, he's on the second floor, striding down the hallway.

"You'll be taking the master suite as usual, I presume."

"You presume correctly."

"Tch, arrogant."

"Foolish."

"Bastard."

"Oppressed hunter."

"Tyrannical vampire."

Kaname felt his lips curl upward; Kiryuu would never admit to his own needs--his own desires. He was a man very much in denial; it explained a lot of what went on between them. It explained the bruises on Zero that disappeared in moments; it explained the scratches on Kaname which healed too quickly to bleed.

It explained the destroyed sections of the villas Kaname stayed in and Zero guarded.

The ornate double-doors at the end of the hall flew wide open as Kaname approached them, exposing to view the grand, master chamber of this mansion. It was gaudy, over-done and everything was touched in gold, but it the actual use of this room--and the villa itself--was not for sleeping and as such, it would do.

Kaname dropped his bag onto the Persian rug near the doorway and shrugged out of his over-coat, draping it over the coat rack which stood in a nook. His eyes casually studied his "escort".

"What now, oh great Kuran-lord?" The hunter's drawl was half-mocking, half-inviting. "Will we sit down and play chess, like old friends?"

Kaname felt his lips tilt upward at one corner. "Not old friends, certainly."

Kiryuu's lips curved as well, cold. "Certainly." He shrugged out of his over-coat, throwing it over the rack as well. He tucked at the cuffs of his button-down, unbuttoning them slowly. His lavender-silver gaze was focused directly; his eyes never moved from Kaname's.

And then, very slowly, his fangs ran out to press against his bottom lip; his tongue touched there as well, making way.

Kaname was across the room in an instant, one hand wrapped around the hunter's throat; the other was ripped the shirt tails from the hunter's jeans and forced its way against pale, flawless skin. The force carried them back into the wall by the door, but Kaname's hands did not move. The plaster over stone cracked, spiderweb lines spreading out from behind the press of Kiryuu's body.

The hunter, in comparison, had wrapped thorn-lined vines around the vampire's forearms, one hand shoved between their bodies to force the mouth of the Bloody Rose under the Kuran's chin. His eyes caught the moonlight through the window and glowed silver with challenge. The still-lingering curve of his lips said it all.

"That's not a very friendly smile you have, Kiryuu." His fingers flexed against the smooth, cool expanse of the hunter's stomach, sharp nails raking lightly. "I think I'll wipe it right off."

"Try it and see if I don't blow another hole in your pretty face, Kuran." Just for emphasis, he pressed the gun's muzzle tighter against the pureblood's skin.

Kaname's lips were sharp with arrogance, "Empty threats, hunter." And just like that, the hand around Zero's throat disappeared to rise and slam the gun--and Zero's hand with it--into the wall beside the hunter's head. The plaster cracked again.

"Keep it up and I'll start think you're impatient for me," Zero quipped, his eyes superior. This was a game he knew how to play and his blood ran hot with it. They did this so often...

"You need your fix, Kiryuu and I need to hear you scream--it's equal parts, wouldn't you say?" Kaname's nails sharpened into claws and he raked them against the pale skin again, _hard_, and let his lips pull back in a fanged-smirk when the hunter's breath hissed between his teeth.

"Yea," Zero ground out, "Fucking _perfect_." The sarcasm dripped from his words like honey from the comb. The vines lacing up between them--holding Kaname to him, rather--tightened perceptibly. "You're a fucking sadist."

Kaname's chuckle was cruel--a side of him he rarely let free reign. "And you appreciate it as the masochist you are. Admit it," he whispered, "only with me do you get to let go of your precious _pride_ and give in to the hurt. You _want_ pain, Zero, so you can remember what a wretched, horrible monster you are."

Fire flared in lavender-silver eyes. "And you're just a charitable philanthropist in that business aren't you, Kuran? Wonder how Yuuki would feel if she knew you're such a user?"

Another cruel chuckle, darker this time. "Oh, I think Yuuki and yourself have quite a deal in common--you make a similar sounds of rapture when you've got a mouthful of my blood."

In a move so quick a lesser vampire would have missed it, Zero's free hand whipped up and buried itself in Kaname's hair, yanking the head back to expose the strong, beating pulse in the throat. That silver gaze locked onto that point and stayed. It did not waver.

"It's your fucking fault," Zero whispered as he leaned forward, letting the words brush against bare skin, "You make me want you...and hate you."

"Less talking, Kiryuu; I've got plans for you tonight."

"And as always," the hunter whispered, lips brushing Kaname's throat, "I aim ..to please." Fangs ran out and pierced deep; Kaname's facial expression didn't waver, though perhaps his eyes darkened with something hot and lustful.

It was hard to say.

In response, he used the hand not pinning the gun to the wall to inflict his own little brand of penance on the tortured soul. It was really just too convenient that Kiryuu needed his blood so often--really too convenient, since short of killing him, any wounds Kaname inflicted on Zero would heal perfectly.

No evidence. No battles. No Yuuki, in tears.

Because it was here that Zero got his blood--that which kept him from becoming that which he hunted; because it was here that Kaname received the chance to punish the silverette for all the times he'd taken what was not his to have.

_Yuuki._

It always came back to her.

When Zero lifts blood-stained lips from his skin and stares at him with eyes that glow crimson, Kaname peels him away from the cracking plaster and slams him into the next nearest wall. He does it over and over, from one wall to the next; from corner to corner. The plaster cracks and spider-webbs and eats up the design of the room. Kaname doesn't care. Kiryuu is bleeding from his forehead, his chest and back, his abdomen. When the pureblood is satisfied there, he throws the hunter on the bed and simply holds them there with a thought.

And for the next several hours, he punishes Kiryuu Zero with the most painful of kisses, embraces and caresses. His fingertips are tinted scarlet with blood; his lips split open and heal innumerable times that evening. And best of all are the marks that mar the pale beauty of the hunters skin, all over. From his throat to his bared chest and lower, over his stomach and hip-bones...

...And lower.

Punishment, penance; sustenance and satisfaction. It doesn't matter what they call it because in the end, they both enjoy it too much to tell the lie properly. If Kaname's feeling particularly kind, he even lies in the bed and watches Zero bleed out slowly onto the sheets before his wounds heal.

When Kaname's not feeling kind, the wounds never get the chance to heal; not until he's _gone_.

And gone, he'll be, soon. Tonight Kaname is in a good mood and so he lies beside Zero's half-naked form, watching the blood congeal on the sheets and the wound close up on itself. Then, with casual, lazy grace, he reaches out and _rips_ ribbons from the flesh of Zero's chest.

The screams bounce, ripple and echo on the walls and return to them, playing like a sweet melody in Kaname's ears.

Later, when they've all but spent their frustrations for the evening and the sun creeps over the horizon beyond the wide glass windows, Kaname allows himself the briefest of smiles; Kiryuu, unbound now but lying half-curled on his side, answers with a crooked smirk.

At the summit meeting the following evening, the new head of the Hunter's Association--Cross Kaien--regards the Kuran lord warily, taking in the shadowing presence of his surrogate son a half-step behind.

"I trust, Kaname-kun, that you were not ill-treated."

Kaname's gaze is fond while it rests on Cross, amused even. His smile is slight and nearly imperceptible, but there nontheless.

"Fear not, Kaien; Zero and I have an understanding."

The Kuran is not surprised the disrespectful snort that comes from behind him.

"Yea, we're good buddies now aren't we--_old friends_, even."

Kaname's lips quirk at one corner, more perceptibly. "Hai. Most certainly."

Kaien's glance slides from one smirking pair of lips to the other, taking the measure of their eyes and the energy of the airs. Then, with a calculatedly easy smile, he waved them both closer.

"That's wonderful! Now, I've prepared cookies and tea for out meeting...!" Ever the same, Kaien's disarming flamboyance would never cease.

Over luncheon, Kaien proposes a tea-toast to 'old friends'.

If he notices that Kiryuu's cheeks redden even the slightest--or that Kaname's fangs show just the smallest bit in his smile--then he wisely makes no mention of it at all.

* * *

Lust and blood-lust are ever connected in the mind of a vampire; a link from one body to another, to the deepest, most integral parts of their being. To partake of the blood was to consume the body.

It is a bridge, intertwining passion and possession; pleasure and pain. And on the fridges of the bridge, like the open air on either side, hovers the possibilities of truths and realizations that are never acknowledge aloud.

They cannot go fully across the bridge.

Instead, they stand in the middle and take deep lingering breaths of that air on either side, holding it deep inside them where things are never spoken. Those things, which must be remain secret.

Staring endlessly off the edge, they hold their breath.

Unremorseful, but apologetic.


End file.
